


each and every night (chasing the horizon in your eyes)

by aalphard



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Honeymoon, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard
Summary: This is the epilogue, the sweetness of the light dripping from their fingertips, the nauseating realization that this is beyond the end. This is the encapsulated promise of an everlasting love, the love you’d never find anywhere else but inside his eyes, because where else would such a feeling find a way to bloom if not in swirling specks of stardust inside the comfortable honey pools he carried like gemstones? This unknowingly magic trap, the silver box keeping your heart captive, the box he holds in his hands as he throws his head over one’s shoulder, as he hums softly, as he presses a kiss to the skin of one’s neck.This is not the end.It is but a mere preface of the life they have yet to build.or: it’s funny how getting married makes someone a poet all of a sudden.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	each and every night (chasing the horizon in your eyes)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written for the sakuatsu fluff week day 6 prompts: **proposals** || **honeymoon** || **"marry me" / "we're already married" / "marry me again"**

Morning greets him with a bird’s chirp, with the sound of the church bells and applause as eyelids flutter open when faced with the invading sunlight that creeps through their open blinds. White sheets burn with memories of the night before, of white tuxedos and the easy laughter that came with the drunken kisses that tasted like strawberries and champagne. White sheets burn with light, almost fearful, touches and the sweet whispers under their breaths, lips stuck to each other’s skin as they slowly undressed, their clothes still lost in the midst of the gigantic hotel room. White sheets burn with silent screams and the intertwined fingers that started to burn after a while, the golden bands clinking softly as they choked out each other’s names.

Kiyoomi reaches for the body next to him only to find the mattress empty, the sheets cold and the pillow sitting up as if a body had never been there in the first place. He blinks once and then twice, the sleepy haziness slowly fading away as his eyes register the image painted in a million carefully calculated brushstrokes of a muscular body in front of an open window, the morning breeze playing with golden laurel wreaths as the sky is painted in a thousand shades of pink and lilac as the sun is born again.

Funny how getting married makes someone a poet all of a sudden.

He rolls over, lying on his stomach and letting his head fall between his arms. A yawn breaks through his throat, eyes teary and tired, but Kiyoomi refuses to let sleep claim him again, not when the scene unfolding before his eyes is as magnificent as it is: the cotton candy clouds moving in perfect harmony with his legs when he sways from one side to the other, the sound of his voice lulling Kiyoomi back to sleep, grabbing him by the chin and kissing him oh, so softly. His eyelids flutter when the sun shines on golden hair, when it explodes in a million pieces as Atsumu swirls and swirls and meets him in the middle.

It’s an exquisite painting, Kiyoomi would say, one he’d pay millions of dollars to own. 

It’s a painting he got for free.

Kiyoomi stretches his arms, his legs and lets a yawn break through once again before throwing his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his robe and slowly making his way towards the window, towards a golden band matching his hair as it shone under the sun creeping up on them first thing in the morning. He’s warm like the first rays of light, like the breeze that envelops them on a summer night, like the open-mouthed kisses they share and the giggles that come afterward. 

He shivers in his embrace. “Morning, Omi.”

“Mm,” Kiyoomi hums against the skin on his neck.

This is the epilogue, the sweetness of the light dripping from their fingertips, the nauseating realization that this is beyond the end. This is the encapsulated promise of an everlasting love, the love you’d never find anywhere else but inside his eyes, because where else would such a feeling find a way to bloom if not in swirling specks of stardust inside the comfortable honey pools he carried like gemstones? This unknowingly magic trap, the silver box keeping your heart captive, the box he holds in his hands as he throws his head over one’s shoulder, as he hums softly, as he presses a kiss to the skin of one’s neck. 

This is not the end.

It is but a mere preface of the life they have yet to build.

“Dance with me?” Kiyoomi asks sleepily.

The answer comes with a nuzzle, a familiar brush of a fingertip against the inside of his wrist, against his palms and the rushing adrenaline that comes with his smile. The world is spinning endlessly around them yet they remain untouched, gravity keeping their feet stuck to the ground and holding each other even if the pull of the celestial bodies were to cease because they spun around an axis of their own, because there was no star that could ever enthrall him as much as he did with his smile, with the childish laugh and the whines first thing in the morning because leaving their nest meant leaving each other’s warmth for a few hours and that meant the cold could rush inside and shatter their bones.

The answer comes with a laugh. “Aren’t ya sappy today?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head. “Not sappy.”

“Sure, whatever ya say.”

They sway and swirl, hair falling over one’s forehead as Kiyoomi takes him in his arms, as light comes and smoke emerges, the sky painted in a thousand different shades of pinks and blues, the lilac coming alive like the laughter escaping his lips. He was the deep, endless space void of predictability. He was a tidal wave, shattering Kiyoomi’s very core, eating him alive in all the right ways, drowning him in everything he never thought he’d willingly seek. He was the stillness of a shallow pool, the safety of jumping with your eyes closed because you know someone’s there to catch you when you fall. He was everything Kiyoomi wanted and more, everything so inherently  _ his _ there was no other way to describe it. 

Miya Atsumu was love in every sense of the word. Sweet and calming but also rough and ripped around the edges, clutching his chest and crying out but also stroking soothing circles over one’s skin, whispering  _ we’ll be okay _ or shouting  _ we’ll be okay! _ because the sparks of a flame burn inside his veins, the arctic cold over his tongue freezes his doubts and Miya Atsumu blooms into a red spider lily bud that grabs Kiyoomi by his neck, leaving him no chances of ever escaping his grasp.

Not that he’d ever want to.

“Remember when you confessed?” He asks with a sweet sigh.

Kiyoomi scrunches up his nose. “It was  _ you  _ who confessed first.”

Because there was yesterday - and before yesterday there was yesterday’s yesterday and all of the days that came before that. Time is a constant change, seconds bleeding into minutes that bleed into hours and hours until a day has passed. Days bleed into weeks, into months and years and, when you finally open your eyes and blinks up at the sun, decades have passed and you’re lying down on your bed with his body on top of you and you’re both giggling because, well, he’s still as pretty as the first time you saw him, the golden bands around your fingers clinking together as you press your hands together, as you flip him around and kiss him senseless because  _ you’re more than anyone in the realm of everyone _ .

And before there is tomorrow, there is today and yesterday and yesterday’s yesterday and every other day that came before that. Before there was a confession there was a snarky comment and a huff when their eyes met for the first time, there was a step back and an invisible hand over his heart that told him  _ I’m giving you away _ . 

“Way back when we were still in high school,” Kiyoomi adds. “You said you’d never let me get rid of you.”

Atsumu laughs a hearty laugh as he rests his head on his shoulder. “That wasn’t a confession, Omi. T’was a threat.”

A threat that felt like a lover’s kiss, like the first sip of a hot drink when your bones and joints are popping and clicking in the middle of a snowstorm and you have nothing else to do other than stare at your window and imagine the possibilities contained in each and every snowflake that dies on your window, the thousands of scenarios one could create over the white canvases of the monumental piles of snow gathering in front of their houses, painting everything dainty and white as a porcelain doll.

A threat that made his stomach flood with warmth and hunger unknown to him as a mere sixteen-year-old, scared to get too close to people, scared of getting hurt. A threat to everything Kiyoomi thought he knew about himself, a threat that made him lose so many nights staring out of his window, clutching an old stuffed animal and whispering to himself,  _ is this really who I am or am I making myself up, is he truly who he shows the world he is or is he simply doing the same as I am. _

“Well,” he presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. “It’s all the same thing.”

Atsumu laughs again but nods this time. “A threat that I’d love ya for the entirety of my life.”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi chuckles with him. “Precisely that.”

There is no sound other than the rhythm of their heartbeats.

Yet, they take two steps to the left and three to the right, one towards the bed and two towards the window. Miya Atsumu, a shrine to a dedicated god of love, a shrine for conquering and devouring, a god so easily swooned by the three magic words only Kiyoomi could whisper, by the drip of one and then two crystal tears over his face, by the reassuring hugs and the reminder that  _ I’m here, it’s okay. _ Atsumu lets himself be swirled and then snatched back by strong, careful hands that rest on the small of his back, holding him so tenderly as if Kiyoomi is afraid he’ll break.

Long calloused fingers dig into Kiyoomi’s shoulder as he takes the lead, taking him in his arms and even closer than before, spinning and spinning and spinning until the world is nothing but a blur, the horizon fading away with the purples and pinks fading away, the endless blue hue over their heads reminding him of the shaved ice they got at a festival once, of the way Atsumu’s tongue turned a pastel shade of blue, of the way it felt cool and warm all at once in a long journey until it blended with the red in his own tongue, a purple hue enveloping them in a chain of childish laughter until they were both tearing up.  _ Yer ridiculous, Omi-kun _ , and the sweet smiles afterwards.  _ Paint the sky purple with me, will ya? _

Closed eyes as the whispers of the sky envelop their dance, the birds chirping by the balcony and the brewed coffee growing cold as they get lost in each other’s lines. The song is nothing but the whispers they share, the kisses over their necks and the tracing fingers over soft, warm skin until they’re drunk in the words they don’t say, gulping them down because they’re not needed, not anymore, but sometimes they escape against their will and they laugh.  _ Being sappy doesn’t suit ya, _ Atsumu likes to laugh, and Kiyoomi only scrunches up his nose even though a smile breaks through his lips as he answers,  _ gross. _

By his hands, the goddesses sing, worlds unfold, sparks flying under closed eyelids as they drown in each other, the relentless waves of a gigantic feeling turning them both into microscopic beings as they close their eyes and hope to wake up to the safety of an embrace along with the sun. Tomorrow blends into today that blends into yesterday that goes back to tomorrow because with him time doesn’t mean anything, the gasps and arches of his back, the sweet whispers and the reminder that  _ yer beautiful, the prettiest I’ve ever seen.  _ He’s lying, Kiyoomi whispers to himself, of course he is, because Kiyoomi doesn’t have a golden hue to him, he doesn’t make the world fold in on itself and force the stars to mimic the glimmer in his eyes. 

“Do ya know how  _ beautiful  _ yer name sounds with my last name?”

_ Sakusa _ . It means forever, eternal.

_ Kiyoomi _ . It means a holy royal subject, a minister.

_ Miya _ . It means shrine, a temple for an imperial family.

_ Miya Kiyoomi _ , a holy royal subject forever serving a shrine to the god called Miya Atsumu.

“It does,” Kiyoomi agrees with a soft spin. “Sounds like I’m shackled to you.”

Another laugh. “And how is that good?”

It just is, he wants to say. Because the things they built were once on a rickety scaffold, stretched as high and fast as the feelings boiling inside of them, a mountain of words left unsaid as they kissed their worries away, as they brushed hair out of their eyes and tears away from their cheeks.  _ We’re okay _ . When they got to the top, the view stretched endlessly beyond the horizon, hands shaking and eyes hazy as the fog settled around them. Kiyoomi had wanted to cling to him, too scared to let himself fall, wanted to look him in the eyes and tell him,  _ this is too much, I’m scared. _

Atsumu knew, wrapping a silk ribbon around their wrists making it impossible for them to drift apart, shackling them together like his hands were the maple oak looms Fate used to create her intricate threads, like his touch was nothing but a breeze of life coursing through his skin as if he was life itself. Atsumu, of course, a god Kiyoomi would spend the rest of his life worshipping.

“It just is.”

“Okay?”

Kiyoomi holds him like the sky holds the stars, like he’s a precious jewel about to shatter, shining brightly and dancing a choreography his legs have memorized millenia ago, his eyes closed as he remembers a distant past where they were in this same position, but with heavy clothes hanging from their bodies and red eyeliner adorning his features. Once upon a time, Kiyoomi had him on a leash, a fox familiar to an empty shrine. Once upon a time, Atsumu had carved his fangs on Kiyoomi’s flesh, eating him whole to satiate a hundred-year-old hunger he couldn’t get rid of. Now, he thinks, they’re melting in each other’s arms as they were always supposed to.

Now, he thinks, there isn’t a single trace of a fox’s tail or a dehumanizing hunger boiling in their stomachs. Now their eyes meet in the morning and they smile as the world stops for the five minutes they need to worship each other, their fingers turning into paintbrushes, their mouths a tangled mess of tongue and teeth and their stomachs growling as they laugh,  _ good morning to you, too. _

“Hey?”

Atsumu blinks up at him with a lazy grin. “Hm?”

There are many things he could say. 

His smile, brighter than the sun itself. His eyes, a golden more valuable than gold itself. His hair, wild like his tosses, like the laughter when they score a match, the screams of victory and the slaps in the back. His body, sculpted perfectly like a replica of Antinous, marble skin and godly eyes that stare up at him with a hunger they know so, so well. His lips, softer than a rose petal, softer than anything Kiyoomi’s ever touched. His laugh, melodious and better than Kiyoomi’s favorite song. His hugs, his arms throwing themselves over Kiyoomi’s shoulder, wrapping themselves around his waist, it feels like home.

Hungry hands desperately picking at each other’s clothes, fingers clumsily fidgeting with the buttons of their shirts, with the leather belts holding their pants up, with the hair strands they tug at forcefully trying to get  _ just one more  _ kiss. Sweet hands softly brushing their locks out of their faces, smiling proudly with a whisper of  _ how was it?,  _ a whisper of  _ t’was incredible _ . Kiyoomi could spend a whole two weeks talking about everything that made Atsumu so frustratingly extraordinary, about the way he held Kiyoomi’s heart so tenderly in his hands, about the way he just  _ was. _

He keeps it simple because that’s easier than swallowing the lump in his throat, because it’s easier than saying he loves everything about him. Kiyoomi laughs before the words tickle his lips, escaping his throat like a hummingbird feeding dawn to dusk as it gets ready to migrate south: “Marry me.”

They’re still swirling around, Atsumu smiling that cheeky smile of his while a slight frown knits his eyebrows together, as he lets go of his hands and wraps his arms around his neck instead. “We’re already married, though? Have ya drank too much and forgot?”

Right. 

Church bells and a celebration, white tuxedos and a stupid, three-layered cake with sugar volleyballs spread out on top of it. Atsumu had eaten too much of those, Kiyoomi remembers with a soft snort. They had drank too much, the bubbling champagne inebriating their senses as they danced closely like this in front of everyone, as they threw flowers around and laughed whole-heartedly after Osamu’s speech, after he teared up and thanked Kiyoomi for finally taking his idiot brother for the rest of his life, wishing him  _ good luck, yer gonna need it. _

“No,” he whispers as he lets his head hang low, as their foreheads touch once again. Kiyoomi closes his eyes. “I meant I want to spend the rest of my life loving you. Will you marry me again?”

“Omi…”

“It’s a serious question,” he adds. “I’m not… I’m not just being sappy. This isn’t a hungover confession or anything. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything that could come even close to what I feel about you. Marry me.”

Atsumu laughs. “Okay.”

A sugar plum kiss, the familiar drip of his sighs as Kiyoomi pulls him impossibly closer, as he drowns in his smells and tastes, as he tastes the sugar from the cake still lingering on his lips, as he remembers how well the champagne complimented the vanilla all over their faces because, well, sometimes they’re stupid and start food wars in the middle of their wedding. A sprinkle of cinnamon on top of warm milk as they laid down and looked into each other’s eyes,  _ hello, husband. _

“In a few years, though, right?”

Kiyoomi kisses his neck. “Whenever you’d like. I just want us to get married.”

Heads thrown back and gasps as they melted into a single being. The thrill of seeing the other without anything on them except for a golden circle around a finger, the smile on their faces as they whispered against each other’s mouths that,  _ well, look at how well golden suits you _ . An earth-shattering laugh bursting through Kiyoomi’s lips as he shakes his head, as he drops it on the crook of Atsumu’s neck because  _ golden is all that surrounds me when you’re around, you should’ve known that. _

“Again and again and again.” He adds.

Atsumu hums as he takes a step back, their dance suddenly coming to an end. “Does that mean we’ll have to get through thousands of wedding receptions?”

Kiyoomi’s face flattens, his eyebrows drifting closer and closer as he frowns, biting his lips with a sigh. “I didn’t think about that, no.”

A prism of the tongue as Atsumu presses soft, chaste kisses to his chin and the side of his mouth, as he whispers,  _ it’s okay, we don’t need those _ , as their rings shine under the bright sun that is now up in the sky, the blue, cloudless canvas that is the sky urging them to leave, to lay down in the grass and spend an entire day with fingers intertwined as they let the sun kiss them. The tinkling laughter blessing the air as Kiyoomi blinks at him with confusion spreading across his every feature, as Atsumu waltzes back into their dance, as he takes full control of the situation and Kiyoomi can’t do anything other than follow in his footsteps.

“Yes,” he whispers against his neck. “Yes, I’ll marry ya. Again and again and again. No matter how many times ya ask me, Omi, I’ll always say yes.”

He nods, his arms now over Atsumu’s shoulders, hands resting on soft, bleached hair, foreheads touching and breaths mingling, the shivers that run up and down their spines when the sky shoots them a breeze, when the clouds show up in the sky again as if they’re inviting them out, as if they’re asking for them to paint the sky a thousand different colors just like they do with the empty canvases of their skins. Small freckles over his nose, the kisses from the sun before Kiyoomi even had a chance to meet him, the moles scattered all around his back like a secret constellation built just for him to discover.

“Even when I’m a jerk?” Kiyoomi asks. 

A smile that feels like a thousand arrows piercing through his heart. A light chuckle that makes his stomach churn and his blood boil because  _ ah. _ Upon a smooth, linoleum floor, their bare feet slide easily as they sway along with the song inside their heads, as they hum two different harmonies that merge together to create their beloved love song, a song only they know, a song they have memorized from the two thousand nights they spent humming against each other’s skin, muttering secret confessions under their breaths and giggling like children. 

They waltz along to it, stepping over each other’s feet, laughing about how  _ we were better at this when we were drunk _ , fairies joining them and sprinkling their magic powder all around them, a tinkling accompanying their song. 

“Yer always a jerk,” he winks. “But it’s okay. I am one, too.”

He is.

He’s the biggest jerk there is.

But it’s okay, Kiyoomi thinks. 

Because now he’s  _ Miya Kiyoomi _ , a holy royal subject forever serving a shrine to the god called Miya Atsumu, a god that whispers his name late at night, that kisses his neck and brings their hands together in a silent prayer,  _ stay with me forever, _ a god that cries when they lose, a god that doesn’t care about anything other than the people he loves, a god that exhales  _ passion,  _ that cultivates love and pours it out freely as if it’s not an intricate part of his being.  _ What else am I supposed to do, Omi? Watch it going up in flames without trying my best to help? Is that the kind of person ya think I am? _

Atsumu laces their fingers together now, dragging him back to the crumpled sheets over the bed they’re supposed to share for the next two weeks, over the sheets where they whispered their biggest secrets as they contorted in every direction, as they screamed and whined and everything in-between. He pushes Kiyoomi down, climbs on top of him and smirks devilishly in the way only he knows how to.

“Should we celebrate some more,  _ Miya Kiyoomi?” _

Kiyoomi shivers. 

His name  _ does _ sound better with Atsumu’s last name, spoken oh, so slowly, so sweetly, with a voice catered only for him to hear, to savor as a lover’s kiss even as Atsumu’s teeth traced the skin over his collarbones, as he slowly ripped the robe out of him, as his fingers touched and his nails scratched just about every inch of porcelain skin they could reach. Because that’s what Kiyoomi is, he thinks, a porcelain doll that breaks and is rebuilt by the same hands that are now slowly caressing his waist, touching his cheek, bringing their lips together once again because  _ ah. _ He doesn’t mind breaking for him, is what Kiyoomi thinks.

This is the prologue, Kiyoomi corrects himself. It’s the sweetness of the light dripping from their fingertips, the nauseating realization that they have yet to write their stories. This, the encapsulated promise of an everlasting love, the love he’d never find anywhere else but inside his honey-colored eyes, because where else would such a feeling bloom if not carried by the comet’s tail inside the amber gemstones he called eyes? This, the unknowingly magic trap, the silver box he held the key to, so close to his heart one might have thought it had always been there, a box that kept both of their hearts as they beat in perfect harmony to the song they composed in the dark shadows of their bedroom.

This is merely another one of their beginnings.

**Author's Note:**

> you're free to come yell at/with me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/aaIphard) (´꒳`)


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